While I translated Baudelaire, Children were playing out in the air.
Turning to watch, I saw the light That made their clothes and faces bright.
I heard the tune they meant to sing As they kept dancing in a ring;
But I could not forget my book, And thought of men whose faces shook When babies passed them with a look.
They are as terrible as death, Those children in the road beneath.
Their witless chatter is more dread Than voices in a madman's head:
Their dance more awful and inspired, Because their feet are never tired, Than silent revel with soft sound Of pipes, on consecrated ground, When all the ghosts go round and round.
